


moonlit lovers

by hartfeld (lyuyu)



Category: Blades of Light and Shadow (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-13 19:36:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28658838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyuyu/pseuds/hartfeld
Summary: She wasn't like any of the other elves he had ever met before. To say that she was simply different would've been a gross understatement; no, she was different, but more importantly, she was different in all of the right ways.
Relationships: Tyril Starfury/Main Character (Blades of Light and Shadow)
Kudos: 2





	moonlit lovers

She wasn't like any of the other elves he had ever met before. To say that she was simply different would've been a gross understatement; no, she was different, but more importantly, she was different in  _ all of the right ways. _

It's proven once again when she drags him by his hand to a river near their campsite of the night, mischief and childlike excitement gleaming in her eyes like a burning ember. Her laughter rings in the air, a lighthearted symphony, as she leads him in the woods with confidence, further and further until the trees are sparse and the river is within their sights.

She had told him that she wanted to swim. To feel wild water run across her skin for the first time in what has felt forever.

Tyril never had heard someone make a confession like hers, but she craves to be one with nature more than someone raised by humans should. Her years in Riverbend hardly made her or her spirit justice, and maybe this newly found freedom has allowed her to bloom in ways even she hadn't prepared for. She had become wild, fierce, untamed.

Hebrien doesn't know the first thing about how she is perceived by the rest of the world; how they expect her to carry herself with that renowned elven pride, calm and collected. Tyril thanks the stars and the Old Gods that she doesn't, because he knows that at the end of the day, when the hours become small and the skies dark, her mind wanders much farther than it ever should. He has seen it happen on more nights than only a few, Hebrien curling against his side like a kitten searching for warmth on each one.

There are enough elves like him, but there aren't even remotely enough elves like her, if any.

Hebrien doesn't bother to test the water for temperature - she will know soon enough either way, won't she? Instead, she undresses, both in hurry and then not; she glances back at Tyril only once and then sheds the very last of the fabric covering her. At last, after having waited for more than enough, she becomes one with the river.

By now Tyril knows better than to resist her whims, so he follows her lead wordlessly. He goes in only moments after her, wading deeper into the river; its flow is calm, and it's not the warmest, yet not insufferable either. The moon shines it's mirage upon the black surface, making it seem as if it's dark velvet running around them.

Hebrien's hair catches the light of the moon, warm white, and for a moment it seems like it absorbs and then reflects the light back. In the darkness of the night, she melts against the body of the water so seamlessly it's hard to tell where she ends, and the river begins. The sight of her like this is ethereal, captivating beyond words. She gazes up to the sky, eyes sparkling gold and wonder as a shy smile rises on her face.

From her lips, however, escapes a mournful thought, "Kade would've loved this."

Tyril's fingertips brush her lightly and she floats into his embrace, back pressed against his chest as his arms hold her firmly, but gently.

"You miss him," he says, the words sounding more a question than a statement. Hebrien remains silent, answering with a mere nod. They stay still for a time uncounted and she leans her head back against his shoulder, letting her eyes fall shut as the world lulls her with its quietness.

The first thing she had ever fallen madly in not-quite-love with was Tyril's hair. He couldn't tell if it had more to do with needing a distraction, something that reminded her of once had normality, or with her fundamental need to take care of someone, just like she did back home.

He wouldn't say it had become an obsession, but something of a frivolous worship; she tends to it more than he cares for, yet he doesn't stop her, those moments when she touches him with such affection tying them together like the wildflowers she weaves in his hair when she braids them. Hebrien has never told him, but there have been a few times when she has caught a low, content purr rumbling deep within his chest when she's threaded her fingers through his hair, carefully untangling the small knots in them. It has become a situation that keeps repeating itself time and time again, just like it does now, her taking care of him.

Tyril doesn't mind the domestication. If anything, he's grown rather fond of it. He knows it can only last for so long before this adventure of theirs reaches its end and their family of misfits scatters across the world.

“When this all is over,” Hebrien murmurs in thought, fingers once more untangling his hair, “do you think you’ll set out on a new adventure again?”

"I don't know. My next adventure might not look the same as the one we're on now. Perhaps it's one I'll have at home."

She grows quiet for a moment, then simply says, "Yeah. Home."

"Do you not wish to return home one day?" he asks curiously.

"...No. Riverbend is not the place for me. Maybe I’ll become a treasure hunter like Mal or join Imtura’s crew. Hells, I could even accompany Nia for her pilgrimage.”

“And Undermount? Do you see yourself coming to my home again?”

It has been a forbidden question, the question of them and future; it's not as if they had stated it aloud or maybe even thought about, it's more of an unspoken rule than a conscious decision, both knowing that for now there's no guarantee of happily ever afters. It has taken the shape of a dream, one that looks like the statue of Bakshi and Ittar, love that feels like a fever in the summer and cool water, invigorating yet soothing.

She asks, “Are you asking me to come to your home,” her voice a mellow whisper; she grips Tyril’s hair in one hand and pulls his head back gently just so their eyes meet, a wildfire burning in her own, “or are you asking me to come to you?”

Hebrien releases her hold and Tyril turns around so they’re face to face, studying her expression so keenly she feels like he’s stripping the rest of her bare, though there’s nothing left covering her. The droplets of glimmering water spread across her reminds him of the map of the cosmos, stars shining on her skin, and the sun blazing in her eyes. He brushes aside her hair, some fallen on her forehead, touch so light she barely feels it, yet even then it sends a shiver down her spine.

She once told him that kissing him feels like kissing a storm, a thunder that runs rampant in your veins, shocking every sense and leaving you tingling and out of breath for hours after.

Tyril thinks he could hardly make Hebrien justice in the way he’d describe her, her essence being maybe too wild to capture in words and metaphors. She’s more of a revelation, a vision, once seen and afterward so difficult to grasp; she leaves behind a haunting mark, one you could recapture when you close your eyes, built by the memory of what she felt like, tasted like, dancing on the edge of your mind, yet it vanishes when you open them again.

But Tyril has not forgotten. She tastes like rules begging to be broken.

He answers her question with a husky breath, “Only time will show us which one you should come to.”

“Don’t speak in riddles, Tyril,” her brows knit together in open defiance, “You know how I feel, hells, I know how  _ you _ feel. I can feel it from the way that you kiss me, how you hold me during the nights we spend together—I could swear it to both my gods and yours, and you won’t, you  _ can’t _ , deny that I am right.”

She takes his hands in hers and brings them to her lips, showering kisses that are almost desperate on his palms, on the back of them, and on his wrists, then setting them to cup her face as she looks up at him, her eyes staring deep into his, asking,  _ is this not what you desire? _

The answer is evident from the way Tyril returns her gaze; it tells it all, that longing to be together like this, tenderly and like he truly is wanted for him and not only for his honorifics. To be so wonderfully, painingly vulnerable, and to shed those invisible walls he’s built around himself, so that maybe one day he has forgotten why they were there to begin with.

He’s aching for a story that begins and ends with her, the greatest adventure he could ever hope for, and one that scares him the most.

Tyril kisses her forehead, her cheek, and then the other before his lips find hers in the dark. He proves her to be right without speaking, kissing her softly, slow yet hungry, hands going up in her hair as they press closer together, yearning to become one. Hebrien’s palms are flat against his shoulder blades, holding him tight when there’s no more distance between them left to close and she sighs a prayer in the form of his name against his mouth with reverence that should only be reserved to the holy.

To him,  _ she  _ is the holy one, a life force beyond explanation, someone who gives his dreams a face and a meaning. Denying her would be a blasphemy.

His words come out ragged and breathy, offering a cure for her ache, “Then come to me, Hebrien. When this is all over, come home to me.”

The kisses cease, though there remains only a little space between their lips, their foreheads pressed together and breaths mixing. Hebrien’s hands go up to the nape of his neck, fingers curling in his hair as she asks shyly, previous bravado way gone, “Do you mean it?”

“...I do,” he answers, that familiar dry humor hinted in his voice as he smirks, “for now.”

Their eyes lock, gold and ice, and Hebrien lets out a soft chuckle, “Then I hope to keep it that way.”

And maybe in that next moment, they indeed become the Old Gods, a reborn image of those elven lovers entwined for eternity in the abandoned hall of the ancient ruins. Tyril’s hands drop  from her cheeks , one to her back, another to her thigh as she moves to wrap her legs around his waist, letting the water carry her. His fingertips dig into the soft flesh, mouth finding the curve of her throat he so devoutly adores and the sensitive skin there, luring out sounds only he knows how to get out of her.

He then returns to her lips, whispering, “As do I,” and a quiet request rolls off the tip of his tongue before he can bite it back, “ _ please, don’t let me run away from you _ .”


End file.
